


Saints and Sinners

by TheOcean



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Powerful Harry, Sane Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25916413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOcean/pseuds/TheOcean
Summary: In the bowels of the Ministry of Magic is hidden the biggest enigma of the wizarding. No, it is not some weapon, or a spell or even a secret doorway to other words. It’s a simple golden goblet with the power to find soul-mates. And every week it produces a list of names, creating a tight contract between the soul-mates and itself. A contract so powerful that breaking it will cost your magic or ever your life.So what happens when the day after her seventeen birthday, Ivy Potter’s name is called out, matched to the one and only Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Slytherin? Hell breaks loose, of course.
Relationships: Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 70
Kudos: 579





	1. Prologue

** Saints and Sinners  
Prologue **

In the bowels of the Ministry of Magic, veiled behind the thick doors and treacherous corridors of the Department of Mysteries, lies the biggest enigma of the wizarding world. No, it is not some weapon, or a spell, nor even a doorway to other worlds as some fantasy lovers would have wished. It’s not even big, truth to be told. No, it is in fact a perfectly harmless looking chalice of pure gold, engraved with rubies and sapphires which painted intricate runes and symbols over its shiny surface. Nothing _that_ special at first glance, if you don’t count the flames dancing inside it, but for the world of magic there was indeed nothing surprising about a goblet full of fire.

But special it was.

It was infused with magic so ancient and alien, that its origins were yet unknown, despite the hundreds of Unspeakables who had tried and failed to reveal its secrets through the centuries. You see, this innocent looking goblet had the power to find soul-mates. And every Sunday six o’clock on the dot it would spew out a list of names of wizards and witches over the age of seventeen and their respective halves.

There are many theories about how the goblet came to be and what criteria it used to match people, some of who have never met before, with such surety. Some speculated that it was a gift from Hecate to her favorites, to make sure that the strongest possible magical children were born. Others said that it was the product of a genius ancient wizard who was desperate to find his soul mate.

Still, much is unknown and most of it will probably remain that way for centuries to come.

But one thing was clear – if your name came out of the goblet, you better follow its instructions.

Of course, through the centuries, there were those who opposed the will of the goblet and rebelled against the match. And therein hides the terrifying truth of the Soul-Matcher, as it was nicknamed by the population – those who refused its will lost their magic. Some of them died instantly afterwards, their bodies unable to cope without magical core. The few who survived were left trying to blend in the Muggle world, though more often than not they were unsuccessful and eventually they too met their demise.

So every Sunday morning at ten o’clock, every single unmarried magical in Britain gathered around the radio, waiting for the new list the Goblet had delivered, hoping and fearing they would hear their name. It didn’t matter if you were man or woman, strong or weak – if you could still produce children, chances were your name could be called next. 


	2. The Announcement

“Children!” Mrs. Weasley’s shrill voice called from inside the house. “It’s almost ten! Get in here!”

Ginny, Ivy, Ron and the twins, who had been amusing themselves with a friendly game of Quidditch in the field in front of the Burrow, groaned in unison but landed anyway, knowing it was not wise to antagonize Mrs. Weasley further.

Hermione, who’d been reading on the grass nearby quickly shut her thick book and joined them on the trek back, worming herself between the only other two girls in the group while murmuring angrily under her breath. Ivy was well aware of her friend’s stance on the Soul-matcher, having offered an understanding ear on many of Hermione’s rants on the subject.

“Don’t let mom hear you,” Ginny cautioned as she caught a few less than favorable words. “She still gets starry –eyed when she speaks of the time her and dad’s names were called.”

“Your mom thinks Celestina Warbeck is the best thing that’s happened to music in the last century.” Ivy pointed out with a smirk, knowing the other two witches shared her passionate dislike for the crooning, overly-sweet Singing Sorceress.

Truth is, Ivy partly shared Hermione’s dislike for the whole soulmate thing, as did many other muggle-born and muggle-raised witches and wizards they’ve met. After growing up in a world where feminism was on the rise and traditional marriage was on the low, the idea of an arranged marriage to a person you might have never met before seemed archaic or even barbaric. Of course, there were many who romanticized the idea of having one true love and no one could deny the simple convenience of having your soul-mate pointed out to you. It certainly saved you the hustle of dating and having your heart broken if it didn’t work out.

Not that witches and wizards couldn’t – or didn’t- date until their name was called, but it was more about experimenting and having fun, than a quest to find love. Though some blood purists and extreme traditionalists didn’t even do that, preferring to save themselves for their match. That explained why most of them were grumpy, stuffy old bats, at least in Ivy’s opinion.

Back to the Soul-Matcher, Ivy was not naïve enough to believe that whatever power controlled the damned goblet had any noble and romantic intentions, like some people liked to think. In fact, in her opinion the whole deal was nothing more than an arranged marriage between people who were sure to produce healthy, powerful wizarding children.

Magic, in its purest form was not truly a sentient being. I wasn’t good or evil, it didn’t have any hidden agendas. It was a force driven mainly by the intention of the caster, but it was also inherently self-persevering. If threatened, it would rise to protect its owner without the need of a spell or even conscious effort, purely to defend itself.

The sole exception of that rule was when a child was threatened. Only then the parent’s magic would react to protect the child rather than the parent, like Lily Potter’s magic had done when Ivy had been in danger.

It was not far-fetched to believe that the point behind the Soul-matcher was virtually the same – it was magic’s way of protecting itself by ensuring the birth of more and stronger witches and wizards.

Ivy could not deny the results though. In History of Magic they had briefly touched upon the time before the finding of the Soul-Matcher, when the inbreeding and inter family marriages had led to a rapid decline in the size of the wizarding population, with high rates of miscarriages and squibs. But now, after generations of soul-matches, the population of magical Britain, and the magical world as a whole, was flourishing as never before with every generation giving birth to stronger magicals than the one before.

But if you ask Ivy what the best thing about the Goblet was, she would tell you it was the terms of the contract it formed between the two parties. While it was absolutely binding and somewhat restrictive, the bond unequivocally forbid any kind of violence among the couple, at the risk of death. For someone who had been physically and verbally abused for most of her youth, the knowledge there was not risk of that in her marriage was welcomed.

Flicking her wand over her body so she didn’t bring mud into the house, Ivy carefully placed her beloved Firebolt, a gift from her late godfather, against the wall of the hall and made her way towards the kitchen where the rest of the Weasley family was gathered along with Bill’s soul-mate – Fleur Delacour.

Taking a seat at the table, Ivy absently fiddled with the loose threads hanging for the sleeve of her sweatshirt while waiting for the program to begin. The chance of having her name called out tonight was slim to none, considering she had turned seventeen only yesterday, but she couldn’t help the feeling of unease which settled in the pit of her stomach.

Their world was ravaged by war she herself was in the center of; the last thing she needed was to draw someone into the mess her life was and put them right in Voldemort’s path. Honestly she couldn’t imagine anyone who would be happy to be matched with her. True, she had fame, money, titles, power but any person with more than two brain cells would realize that being connected to her would put their whole family in mortal danger. And there was no amount of power to make that risk worth it.

A low static hum broke through her thoughts as the ancient radio sparkled to life, attracting the attention of everyone in the room.

“Good morning, Magical Britain!” The surprisingly chirpy voice of the Unspeakable tasked with announcing the revealed names broke the utter silence of the room. “Let us see who the lucky couples today are!”

The spoke-person continued talking but Ivy tuned out the vaguely familiar names being sprouted out. There were a few Hogwarts classmates in there as well as a relatively famous Quidditch player, but honestly the Girl Who Lived couldn’t care less. Rather, her mind was busy mulling over the Order’s next actions and her approaching Horcrux hunting trip with Ron and Hermione. She’d already put some plans into action, having written several letters for the members of the Order about what they should while she was gone.

It was the bruising grip on her upper arm which dragged her rather forcefully out of her thoughts. Frowning, she turned to scold Hermione but her friend shushed her quickly, motioning towards the radio where the announced was still spewing out names.

“Merlin what a surprise!” The cheerful announcer exclaimed. “It seems that the Chosen one, Ivy Dorea Potter herself is about to meet her match in Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Slytherin. My, my what a shock indeed!”

It took a moment for the words to register, but when they finally did, Ivy felt all the blood drain from her face. Her breathing quickened as she looked around, meeting the terrified and disbelieving eyes of those who knew exactly whom the name Tom Riddle belonged to.

And yet all she could think about was the continuous chant of _Nonononono_ circling through her head. She saw lips moving, concerned gazes flashing in her direction, but she could not hear them above the thunderous beat of her heart. Her vision blurred and she felt the ground tilt beneath her feet as it rushed up to meet her falling body.

And then there was darkness.

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle, otherwise known as Lord Voldemort, absently skimmed through the thick, ancient tome in his hands, the crinkling of the fragile old pages the only sound in his study. Even through the thick, stone walls of Malfoy manor, he could hear his Inner Circle gather in the sitting room around the still silent radio. Their meeting had been conjoined almost half an hour earlier, but most still lingered, using the time to speak with each other and plot their next political moves.

The hum of conversation ceased the moment the radio sparked to life and the grating voice of the announcer started spewing out names.

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, he turned to another page, listening absently.

In his youth, Tom Riddle himself had been enthralled by the Goblet, if not for its purpose then for the sheer amount of magic it must contain to continue unfailingly completing its purpose even centuries after its creation. And if a young, orphan boy had been bewitched by the idea of a person who would be at his side forever, it was not something Lord Voldemort would ever admit.

He had religiously studied every single text on the Soul-Matcher he could get his hands on, but they were few and vague at best, so he soon abandoned his research for more fruitful endeavors.

Still, he tried to keep up with the program when he could, for political reasons if nothing else. It was intriguing how such little thing as marriage could shift whole votes of the Wizengamot and be so crucial to the passing of one law or another.

“And it seems that the chosen one, Ivy Dorea Potter herself is about to meet her match in Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Slytherin.”

The book slipped from his grasp as he tore across the room and almost pulled the door out its hinges when he threw it opened. On the other side he was met with the shocked eyes of his followers, who unconsciously flinched back when met with his explosive anger. “What. Did. It. Just. Say?” He ground out angrily, eyes flashing red. Nagini, awoken by his abrupt departure, slid out of the study after him, hissing her displeasure to the world.

“M-my Lord,” Lucius started haltingly, almost flinching when his master’s eyes focused on him. He might be one of the few who dared call themselves friends to the Dark Lord, but still when those enraged ruby pools moved in his direction, he felt fear shoot through his being. “I-it seems that you soul-mate is-” He swallowed heavily. “-P-potter.”

“I heard that, Lucius!” Tom snapped, running a hand through his short mahogany locks which had returned with the rest of his human attributes, thanks to Snape and his potions genius. “The question is how any power in this world could look at _Ivy Potter_ , Dumbledore’s Golden girl and decide she is the perfect match for _me_?”

“With all due respect, my Lord,” Severus spoke up from the place he was standing on Lucius’ left. “As much as it pains me to admit it, the Potter girl is powerful and resourceful when she wants to be.” 

“She is also Lady Potter by blood and Lady Black through Blood adoption, if the rumors are correct.” Narcissa, ever the politician, added quietly, mind already plotting around the new circumstances in the ways only a true Black woman could. “Despite being a half-blood, her connections and political standing could be exactly what we need in the Wizengamot to push your propositions forward.”

Anger slightly depleted, Voldemort almost collapsed on one of the settees strewn around the room, running a tired hand over his face. Nagini, sensing her master’s distress climbed the back of the couch, wrapping herself around his shoulders in a gesture of comfort.

“So, I have to marry the girl then.” The Dark Lord sighed. “Any chance of keeping the marriage in name only?” He asked looking towards Lucius who had sat next to his wife on the opposite couch.

Lord Malfoy smirked at his friend, much more relaxed now the storm had passed. “No. The contract of the Goblet acknowledges the marriage as completed only after it’s consummated.” There was a moment of silence. “You know that if possible, children are a requirement in the contract Marvolo.”

Lord Voldemort cursed under his breath. “I don’t even know if I could even have children.” He growled out. “You know some dark rituals could affect the fertility of the caster.”

“Well, now would be the time to get a healer and check, my Lord.” Narcissa remarked, despite the half-hearted glare she received for her efforts. “Meanwhile, you should probably write to Potter and arrange a meeting.”

“Why does our Lord have to write first?” Lucius complained. “She is in need of this marriage just as much as he is.”

Narcissa had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes at her prideful husband. “Because, Lucius, despite everything, she is only a seventeen years old girl who just learned she is to marry the man who’s been trying to kill her for years. You can’t expect her to take the lead! She must be terrified!”

Lucius opened his mouth to argue back, but his lord’s glare stopped him in his tracks. “I will write the letter.” Voldemort told them, pulling himself up from the couch. “Meanwhile, Lucius, you will write a marriage contract. And somebody find me a damned healer!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos! I hope you like this chapter and I'll see you again tomorrow!


	3. The Aftermath

Ivy groaned quietly as she shifted, the bed covers rustling at the movement. Her head felt heavy and foggy, like it did after she had a bit too much from the Firewhiskey Fred and George loved to sneak in to Griffindor parties. Memories started rushing back to her, at first sluggish and distorted, as if she was looking at them through a one of the foeglasses fake Moody had in his office in her fourth year.

She’d spent the afternoon playing Quidditch with the Weasleys, which explained the dull, pleasant ache in her muscles. It’d been a while since she’d played. They’d been talking about the Soul-Matcher, joking around as they were wont to do in the brief moments of levity they could snatch, before going in to hear the names-

Oh, Merlin and Morgana, _the names_!

Shooting up into a sitting position of the bed and feeling faint once more, the raven-headed witch forced herself to take deep breaths to calm her escalating heartbeat. She remembered now. She must have passed out from the shock, which explained how she had found herself here with no memory of going to bed.

Thankfully, Ginny’s and Hermione’s bed were empty, giving Ivy the peace and quiet she needed to put her thoughts in order, as much as possible. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind the way Snape had thought her. With time and practice, she’d gotten much better at Occlumency than those first laughable tries in the dungeons at Hogwarts. It allowed to her to compartmentalize her thoughts and neatly pack them away until she had the time and emotional strength to deal with them.

It was not, perhaps, the healthiest way of dealing with trauma, but it granted her the ability to stay clear headed in the most daring circumstances. If it didn’t she would have probably broken down after Dumbledore’s death at the end of the last school year. The Headmaster himself had thought her to do that, while grooming her to stand at the head of the Order in his place.

Once she was sure she wasn’t on the verge of emotional breakdown, Ivy pulled herself up from the bed and took a quick stock around the room. Her wand and holster were on the nightstand so she quickly attached them back on her forearm as she headed to the door.

Even from the top of the staircase she could hear the raised voices coming from the kitchen, many more than she would have thought. She started to make out the words as she got closer, pausing on the door for a moment to listen. 

“She cannot agree to this!” A rough voice which she recognized as Mad-Eye Moody’s, rose above the others. If he was here, then the debate must really be heated for him not to notice her presence immediately.

The Weasleys must have called an emergency Order meeting at the news and the realization grated against Ivy’s already raw nerves.

She was having hard enough time earning the respect of the older members of the Order of Phoenix without her family undermining her authority at the first moment of weakness. Her age and perceived lack of experience had been a problem since the moment it was revealed Dumbledore had named her his successor. It didn’t matter that she had faced Voldemort more times than anyone else or that she had prevailed every single time – there were still those like Mrs. Weasley and Moody, who saw her as nothing more than a child playing a grown-ups game.

“Don’t be daft, Alastor!” It was Remus who answered, her honorary godfather, sounding even more tired and weary than usual. At least Ivy could always trust him to choose her side, even against his own believes. Sirius’ death had brought them closer; two lost souls, beaten down repeatedly by life and hardship, left to drift alone in the wind. “She will die if she doesn’t-”

“Then better die than marry that monster-”

“Alastor!” The others exclaimed in horror at the auror’s suggestion. Part of Ivy, that dark pit of self-loathing at the back of her mind, could agree with Moody’s vehement suggestion. But there were other factors to consider until she took one decision or another.

Deciding she had heard enough, Ivy pushed the door open, stiffening when all eyes immediately shifted in her direction. She let her gaze sweep over the gathered crowd filling the Burrow’s cozy kitchen, ignoring the concern and guilt wafting from some of the members, in favor of keeping her face stone-still.

“I must have missed the meeting announcement.” She remarked emotionlessly, looking pointedly in the direction of Mrs. Weasley’s guilty countenance. The warm, red-headed woman might be like a mother to her but when it came to running the Order she had no more weight than any other member, despite Ivy’s feelings. 

“Ivy?” Hermione spoke up softly from where she was sitting between Ron and Ginny, her face wan and worried and bushy hair even more frizzy than usual. “Are you alright?”

Faced with the genuine concern of her closest friends, Ivy allowed herself to soften slightly, offering a half-smile which was much more tired than convincing. “I’ll be fine, Mione.”

Chairs shifted and dragged to make space for her as she walked over to sit at the head of the table, her customary seat for such meetings. “Now tell me, what could be done for the situation?”

The members of the Order of Phoenix shifted uncomfortably, sharing looks as if daring each other to speak up, like children in a classroom. In the end it was Tonks who decided to speak, though with uncharacteristic timidity, her hair a dull grey color Ivy hadn’t seen since last year when Remus had at first refused to accept their bond. “Actually Ivy, there is nothing we could do. You can either accept the match and marry him or lose your magic and possibly die.”

Ivy must have made a face at the brutal finality of the statement, because it was Remus who picked up the explanation after shooting an admonishing look in his wife’s direction. “The moment the Goblet chooses two people it creates a sort of a magical contract between the soul-mates and itself, similar to the one you had during the Triwizard Tournament.” Remus started, in what Ivy had dubbed ‘his teacher voice’. It gave her some semblance of calm that the concern evident in the eyes of the company was not present in Lupin’s manner of speech. “The contract is pretty simple in its entirety: the couple must marry within two months of the announcement and therefore agree to the match; or refuse and lose their magic. Of course, depending if one or both sides refuse, it is possible for only one of the partners to lose their magic.”

Absently, Ivy nodded. While there were no classes at Hogwarts which touched upon the topic of Soul-Magic (beside brief mentions) because it was one of the hardest and most dangerous branches of Magic, the House Heads had made sure their students were all aware of the Goblet and what it meant to hear your name.

“So if I, hypothetically, refuse the bond Tom’s magic would remain intact?” Ivy asked, just to make sure. “And what does it really mean to lose your magic?”

“It means having your magical core literally ripped out.” Tonks supplied, the look on her face showing how terrifying she found the whole prospect. “But the core is only part of it. As you know, magic circulates the body through channels, similar to the way blood circulates through the blood vessels. The stronger magic one has the bigger their core is and more the channels. That’s the reason stronger witches and wizards cannot survive the loss of their magic. It is simply such big part of their body that their organism simply cannot handle the shock.”

The terrible hopelessness made Ivy’s throat clench and her eyes burn. She had known, logically, that there was little which could be done in the situation. But still, there had been this hope in her that somehow, someone would find a way out.

“Okay,” She said finally, grateful that her voice didn’t reflect her emotional turmoil. “Alright. I need some time to think.” Suddenly impatient to be alone, she pushed back from her chair, ignoring the way it scraped against the floor at the rude handling. “You are dismissed.” She didn’t wait to watch the members of the Order leave, nor to hear whatever pitying commentary they might be tempted to offer. Instead she bolted out of the suddenly suffocating room before she lost the last dregs of her dignity. Once she was behind the safety of a closed door she would allow herself to break down, to cry and to curse the Fates who hated her.

And once her tears were spent and her voice hoarse from muffled sobs, she would have to make her choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kudos and the riviews! I hope you like this chapter as well and stay tuned for the next one!


	4. The Choice

Ivy greeted the morning awake, leaning against the cold glass of the window, letting it cool down her feverish skin. No one had bothered her, either realizing how desperately she needed the time alone or too terrified to test her already straining temper. Even Ginny and Hermione, whom she shared a bedroom with, had made themselves sparse this night, probably choosing to sleep in one of the rooms freed by the eldest Weasley boys when they moved away.

And indeed, she did spend the time thinking, mulling over the choice she was faced with, no matter how glum it was. Because in the end her decision had been glaringly obvious.

Ivy Potter was not afraid to die. She never had been. Perhaps it was her upbringing and the sense of her own unworthiness it had nursed in her, or maybe her so aptly named hero-complex, but death had never seemed as such a frightening concept. Over and over she had proved her willingness to sacrifice her own life for those she loved.

And still, it was the other possibility which frightened her most. A life without her magic seemed like a bleak, dark prospect, a hundred times worse than death could ever be. Even now, as she sat brooding against the window she could feel it coursing beneath her skin, ready to leap in action at the faintest hint of danger.

Magic meant… Everything. It had been the one thing which kept her alive under the Dursleys’ less than tender care, healing her when she needed it or simply bringing comfort when she was all alone in the dark, behind the locked door of her cupboard. It had been the reason for meeting her friends and escaping the clutches of her relatives so she could find a true home in Hogwarts.

And what would happen to the Order if she died? To her friends and family? Dumbledore was gone. Who would protect them if she died? True, they’d probably choose another leader, one perhaps with more experience and knowledge than her. But Ivy was not a fool, nor was she modest enough not to realize her own value for the Order. She knew that with the Headmaster’s death, she was the only obstacle which stood between Voldemort and all those she held dear. Despite everything, Ivy knew the Dark Lord feared her, if only a little. She had survived him too many times, defeated him too many times, to not make herself a threat.

She could not _, would not_ , leave those she loved at his mercy. And if the price of protecting them was binding herself to that monster, she would pay it, as she had paid so many times before.

That did not make the idea of marrying him much easier to bear though. The very thought of allowing that creature into her life, into her bed, made her want retch. It had nothing to do with his looks, though they were disgusting enough. But the knowledge of what he had done, the awareness that the hands who would touch her were the same ones who had murdered her parents was more that she could bear at the moment.

Blood red, merciless eyes flashed behind her closed eyelids, the promise of murder writhing within their depths.

Ivy swallowed thickly. She _would not_ cry! She had faced horrors which made adult wizards cower in fear. She had bled and she had killed. She was a leader, a weapon, forged in blood and fire to stand between the wizarding world and darkness.

Albus Dumbledore had made sure of it.

With his subtle manipulations and those damned twinkling, knowing blue eyes, he had made sure she would be the perfect martyr they needed. And the worst thing was that she had let him. The little eleven years old orphaned girl, who had spent her whole life belittled and oppressed, had latched herself at the opportunity to do something, to prove the world and her relatives that she was not worthless. So she had let him guide her, mold her into the perfect little soldier of the light, despite knowing that it was far from the genuine affection she so ardently wished for.

It had taken her years to finally open her eyes but by then it had been too late. She had been already too deep, hunted viciously by one side, while the other hailed her as a hero. And she no longer had a way out.

Realizing that she was gripping the window sill with enough force to leave a mark on the worn wood, Ivy forced her fingers to relax, flexing them slightly to get rid of the dull pain rooted there. Sounds of clattering dishes and pans reached her ears and she sighed, knowing that her solitude was at its end.

Throwing a last glance towards the lightening world outside, the witch stood up and made her way to the shower to erase the last remnants of last night.

* * *

They were walking on eggshells around her and it made her eyes flash with anger and her blood boil. Nothing was being mentioned of the previous night, the silence filled with nonsensical chatter, but she could see it in the way they avoided her eyes. Pity. Concern. Wariness.

She was vaguely reminded of her second year at Hogwarts when everyone had been convinced she was Slytherin’s heir. The prickling of eyes on the back of her neck, the whispering conversations which halted as soon as she stepped into the room, it all so, so painfully familiar. But these were not a bunch of fearful adolescent fools, these were the people who were supposed to be her family. And it hurt more than Ivy cared to admit.

It made her wonder what they would do when she married Tom. Would they look at her with fear? Would they speak about her when she was out of the room only to stop as soon as she entered? Or maybe they will push her out of their lives entirely as if she didn’t exist.

A violent combination of anger and betrayal swirled in her chest, her fingers fisting into the dry, sun-burnt grass beneath her.

Unable to stand the forced normalcy inside, she had escaped out here knowing that no one would follow her. The sun beat against her skin and sweat poured down her forehead but she could not make herself to return to the coolness in the house. Not when her temper was so high, when the tight leash she kept on her magic was straining, closer to breaking than it had been in years. She could still recall clearly the destruction of Dumbledore’s office, her hair whipping against her cheeks as the storm of pure, angry, unrestrained magic, violate and dangerous, stole the very air of the room. Had Dumbledore been a weaker wizard, she could have killed him that day.

The Headmaster had sat her down in front of her desk after the storm had passed and explained in no uncertain terms what the price of possessing such powerful magic was. It was rare, he told her, to witness such power in one so young. Rare and very, very dangerous. He had then spent half of the summer teaching her how to temper it, to keep it bound in chains of self-control so it would never hurt anyone.

Of course, after learning about it Hermione had insisted they look into it, dragging a very reluctant Ron and surprisingly interested Ivy with her. It was thanks to her book-loving friend that Ivy learned just how different she was from other people in this respect as well. Forever the freak among freak it seemed.

Most books they had found on the subject of magical cores and magic as a whole described it as a benevolent entity, manifesting itself as a feeling of soft, warm energy buzzing beneath the skin, always present but rarely prevalent if it was not in use. Both Ron and Hermione confirmed this theory, leaving Ivy to stare at them uncomprehendingly.

Because her magic had never felt that way, even before she was aware of it existence. No, Ivy’s power felt less like a summer breeze and more like a hurricane, ready to be unleashed upon the world in a moment. It was the reason behind her troubles with learning certain spells, especially in Charms and Transfiguration, where precision was more important than raw power. In the begging especially, a lot of her spells had come out severely overpowered, to the point where even the simplest magic could turn dangerous in her hands. Ivy could still vividly remember the moment in first year when she’d tried to light a candle and almost burnt down half of the Charms classroom instead.

Hermione suspected the reason was connected with the way Ivy had been brought up. Instead of developing naturally over time, her magic had been forced to protect her since she was only one year old and Lord Voldemort had pointed a wand towards her with the intention to kill. Since then it had only grown exponentially, forced by the need to keep her alive through Dursleys’ tender care and later, through the dangers Hogwarts had offered. It was growing still, considering that the magical core didn’t mature completely until 21 years of age.

It truly shouldn’t come as a surprise that the Soul-Matcher had thought the only person with magic just as strong and volatile as hers was Voldemort.

The sound of wings beating against the wind drew Ivy out of her progressively darkening thoughts, forcing her to look up, fully expecting to see Hedwig returning from her most recent hunt. But instead of her beautiful, white snowy owl, the approaching bird was dark in color – a stark contrast against the cloudless sky.

“Hello,” Ivy greeted as the majestic-looking barn owl landed on her bend knee, sharp talons prickling against her bare skin. “Do you have a letter for me?” Obediently, the owl raised its leg so Ivy could carefully untie the pristine white envelope. “I’m sorry I don’t have any owl treats for you.” She apologized when the bird remained where it was, watching her carefully with wide dark eyes.

Slightly disturbed by the bird but far more curious about the letter, Ivy focused her attention on the envelope, where in the most elegant handwriting she had ever seen was written her name. Curious but wary, she waved her wand over it, sighing in relief when she found no curses. Not that a cursed letter could pass through the brand new wards surrounding the Burrow, but the need to make sure had been continuously drilled into her since the accidents with fan-mail during her fourth year in Hogwarts.

Once convinced that it was safe to do so, the witch tore into the envelope, unfolding the short note it contained with curiosity.

_Lady Potter,_

It read in the same ridiculously beatific cursive script from the envelope.

_In light of recent revelations, I believe a meeting should be in order to discuss our plans of the future. If it is convenient to you, me and two my associates will be in the Leaky Cauldron at 12 o’clock on Tuesday. You have my word that you and any friends you decide to bring shall not be harmed during the meeting._

_If this plan clashes with previous engagement or is in any way disagreeable to you, please respond with a more convenient time._

_My owl shall await your response._

_T.M. Riddle, Lord Slytherin_

Taking a deep breath to calm the frantic beat of her heart, Ivy skimmed the letter a few more times, pondering what her response should be. The formal style, surprisingly, did ease her nerves a little, letting her think of it more like a business transaction rather than planning a wedding. Deep inside she was relieved that he had been the one to reach out first, because honestly, she couldn’t imagine writing a freaking letter to the Dark Lord.

Transfiguring some sticks and leaves into a pen and paper (because she absolutely refused to go ask her friends, who would flip out at the mere mention she was writing to Voldemort. And honestly someone should finally introduce the Wizarding world to the miracle of pens, rather than the simply archaic quills they insisted on using) she scribbled a short, affirmative response, trying to keep it in the same formal style his letter had been.

Hesitantly she signed with-  
  
 _I.D. Potter_  
Lady of the Noble and Ancient House of Potter  
Lady of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black

Sending the owl back to her master, Ivy allowed herself to relax back on the grass, her mind full of confusion. Voldemort had hinted that she should bring someone with her – and thank Merlin for it – which left her to choose whom among those she trusted to take to the meeting.

Her first thought, as always, were Ron and Hermione, but she quickly discarded her male friend as an option. While he might be hurt at her decision not to include him, she knew she couldn’t allow her feelings - or his - to shade her perception. This meeting would require no small amount of diplomacy and equanimity and to be honest, Ronald possessed very little amount of both.

Hermione though, was a must. While Voldemort and whoever of his lackeys he chose to bring would hardly be happy about the presence of someone they considered inferior, Ivy needed to have her friend with her if she was to keep a cool head.

Which left her with only one other person to choose.

Mentally, Ivy ran through the list of Order members and friends she trusted, immediately dismissing most of them. In the end she decided she would ask Remus if he was willing to accompany her.

Yes, Remus and Hermione sounded like the best choices – both smart, knowledgeable and able to keep a clear head under pressure. The only thing left was to ask them and to stop Ron from blowing the roof off when he found out about the meeting.

Feeling much older than her seventeen years, the Girl Who Lived pushed herself off the ground and made her way towards the house, mentally readying herself for the battle that was sure to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kudos and the riviews! I hope you like this chapter as well and stay tuned for the next one!


	5. The Meeting

Ivy critically inspected her reflection in the mirror, head titled to the side as she tried to take in how different from usual she looked.

After she’d told the Weasleys about the meeting with the Dark Lord (and the consequent shouting match between her and Ronald) Fleur Delacour, to the surprise of all, had offered to help her choose an outfit for it. Which had turned into a two day long shopping spree in the magical district of Paris, after the French witch saw that Ivy’s wardrobe still consisting mostly of Dudley’s hand me downs and the occasional school robe.

_“Appearances are more important than you think, Ivy,”_ The half-veela had told her, passing her a pile of the nicest clothes Ivy had ever seen. _“Use them to influence the way others see you. People will judge you by the way you look, especially in your position. Learn how to influence that judgement and you’ll hold more power than you think.”_

Ivy had been skeptical of Fleur’s words at the time, but now, seeing the end result made her reconsider. While she had never been a vain creature – being chased by a maniacal serial killer left little time to worry about looks – she could appreciate the sight in the mirror.

Fleur had chosen to dress her in a cream colored silk top and a fitted blood-red skirt, which made her feel more feminine than she ever been in her life. Somehow, along the way, her body had changed as if in instantly, leaving behind the lanky limbs and knobbly knees of her childhood for the softly curved waist and flaring hips of a young woman. She was not perhaps as curvy and soft as she knew it was currently fashionable – the years of Quidditch and Defense training had toned her body, melting away the little amount of fat she had – but the overall effect was hardly unappealing, Ivy concluded.

Even her hair had been tamed by an ungodly amount of Sleekeazy, pulled back in a high ponytail and revealing the sharp cheekbones and arched eyebrows she’d inherited from her Black grandmother. She’d been often told that those features when relaxed, made her look proud and unapproachable, belied only by the expressiveness of her green eyes.

All in all, Ivy thought she looked older, and most importantly, she looked like a woman who knew what she was doing. If only she could feel that confident!

Taking a deep breath and checking everything one last time, Ivy tucked her wand in the glamoured holster on her right forearm before making her way downstairs, where Remus and Hermione waited.

Everyone else had left an hour earlier in accordance to the plan they’d forged the previous night. Because apparently she couldn’t be allowed to meet Voldemort without back-up (as if she’d had a small army of wizards at her beck and call during all their previous encounters), the entire Order of the Phoenix would be stationed along Diagon Alley in case help was needed. It seemed Ivy was not the only one fearing today’s meeting would turn into a bloodbath.

Remus and Hermione were talking quietly in front of the fireplace when she entered the living room, both looking as wan and nervous as Ivy herself felt.

“You have your necklaces?” She asked as she reached them, receiving confirmative answers from both.

The necklaces were, in Ivy’s opinion, Hermione’s most genius idea to date. Charmed with the same Protean charm the DA had used, they gave the Order an easy way to pass along secret messages. They also acted as an emergency, password-protected Portkeys, leading straight to one of the Order’s bases in case of danger. It had taken her and Hermione months to make enough so every member could have one, but it was worth it if it meant lives could be saved.

“Let’s go then.”

The Leaky Cauldron was much emptier than Ivy remembered ever seeing it, most patrons probably scared away by the ever looming danger of Death-Eater attack. Finally the British society had accepted Voldemort’s return and had reacted accordingly – with blind fear and indiscriminate suspicion. It had taken only one physical appearance of the man himself and dozens of deaths. No, she was not bitter at all that they’d spent years calling her a liar and then not even bothered to apologize after she was proven right.

Tom, the old bartender, offered a toothless smiled when they walked out of the fireplace, obviously warned to expect them. Though, judging by the lack of fear in his eyes he obviously had no idea about the illustrious company he was entertaining. He greeted Ivy by name, always pleased to have her in his bar, before leading them to one of the rooms on the first floor Ivy knew were kept for private meetings. There was burning curiosity in the man’s eyes as he left them, but whatever questions he had were left unasked. After all, he would hardly be a good pub-owner if he badgered his patrons with questions about their personal business.

Staring at the peeling paint of the door, Ivy tried her best to clear her mind. She had spent most of the morning meditating, trying to strengthen her Occlumency shields, even if they wouldn’t been able to stop a full-fledged mental attack from the Dark Lord even at their best.

There was a warm, reassuring hand on her shoulder and she silently thanked whichever deity was listening for Hermione’s presence.

Finally, when her control no longer felt like it would slip like water through her fingers, she forced herself to press a hand against the worn bronze handle and enter the room where her destiny awaited, melodramatic as it might sound.

The short hair on the back of her neck rose immediately as she stepped inside, her magic’s way of warning her about danger. It took Ivy a lot of will power to go against every instinct she had honed over the years and keep her wand in its holster.

The room was very similar to the one Ivy had stayed in after blowing up Aunt Marge three years ago. With its garish, washed out flowery wallpaper which hurt her eyes and the faded furniture it looked like it came out of one of those eighties sitcoms Aunt Petunia used to watch in between keeping an eye on her neighbors.

The middle of the room was take up by a long wooden table, with six chairs arranged neatly along its sides. Three of the chairs were already occupied and no matter how much Ivy wished to delay it, her gaze was immediately drawn by the figure in the middle, Avada-Kedavra green eyes clashing against blood red ones, set in a face she had never expected to see in the flesh again.

She knew she had frozen in the doorway, but for the life of her Ivy could not force herself to move, as memories assaulted her senses. Memories of that same face, though perhaps a few years younger looking down at her, smirking as she pleaded for her friend to wake up. The same face which belonged to the little orphan boy with the cold eyes, who had been, from the moment he was born, punished for mistakes which were not his.

_“I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."_

“Miss Potter,” A familiar low voice drawled and Ivy was finally able to tear her gaze away from the eyes which held her prisoner long enough to inspect the other occupants of the room. On Tom’s right was seated, in all his glory, Lucius Malfoy, his face twisted in a sneer at the sight of her companions. Of course, his tender pureblood sensibilities must be hurt by simply being in the same room with a Muggleborn and a werewolf. Suppressing an eye roll, Ivy turned towards the third man in the room, who’d been the one to call her name.

“It’s _Lady_ Potter now, Snape.” She corrected him, not quite successful at hiding the snarl in her voice. It was hard, extremely hard, not to lose her composure when faced with three of the most hated men in her life.

“Lady Potter-Black, please, sit.” Voldemort finally spoke, eyes alit with amusement as he motioned towards the chair opposite him. His voice was a smooth deep baritone, but underneath, the iron edge of a command lay, cutting even through the curtain of politeness.

Straightening her back, eyes flashing at the implicated command, she crossed the room with all the grace years on a broom had instilled in her and seated herself directly opposite him with her friends arranging themselves at her sides.

Ivy used the moment of silence to inspect her (hopefully? Probably?) former nemesis and his new both familiar and alien looks.

At fifteen Tom Riddle had been a ridiculously charismatic and beautiful boy, able to charm anyone he set his sights on. As an adult, he was sinfully attractive man.

His hair was as dark and slightly curled as Ivy remembered from her second year (and afterwards, when late at night she would think back on those moments, mentally listing all the similarities they shared) but it was perhaps a little shorter, swept back and away from his face. His cheekbones were what aunt Petunia would call aristocratic, high and sharp and elegant, now that the little baby fat he’d had at fifteen had melted away completely.

The worst thing was that Ivy could easily imagine herself lusting after such a man, if the eyes were not a dead give-away of his identity. She had, in fact been attracted to the diary Tom Riddle, despite being only twelve at the time, at least until the Chamber of Secrets. How mortifying it was that even years after that he was still able to affect her, if only on physical level.

But seeing him like that, mature and confident and handsome, made her understood how he’d managed to inveigle so many people to his cause. It is after all, in humans’ nature to flock to individuals who are perceived as beautiful or charming. Charisma is a powerful weapon in the hands of those who knew how to wield it.

“You look different” She remarked finally, grateful to find that her face had kept its neutral expression all through the storm in her thoughts.

“Courtesy of your potions professor,” Tom replied, running long, slender fingers through his dark locks, as if to check if they were still there. “I cannot say I miss the old visage, useful as it could be.”

_Why, when it so correctly displayed the monster within._ The response was on the tip of her tongue, teasing her taste buds, but she swallowed it back. Judging by the amusement flashing in the depths of his eyes he was well aware of the effort it took to keep her biting tongue in check.

But Ivy was not there to exchange verbal swords and covert insults.

“You said you wanted to talk, _Tom_.” She said curtly, emphasizing on the name she knew he hated, delighting at the slight twitch in his expression it provoked. She might not be a Slytherin but she’d learned how to wield words with the best of them. “Let’s talk then.”

“Of course. I expect you heard about the announcement?” As if it was possible to miss it. Even the Prophet had been on top of it, writing article after article about her union with the mystery Lord Slytherin. Ivy had read exactly three sentences before setting the whole bloody newspaper on fire.

Her expression must have been enough of a confirmation, because Riddle – she could not call him Voldemort when he looked like the boy she’d spent hours writing to – continued with the same businesslike efficiency, which seemed to have set the tune of the meeting. “Then by your presence here I understand you’ve chosen to accept the bond?”

The girl smiled bitterly. “Considering the only other option is death, I would not call it much of a choice.”

While his expression displayed little emotion, something in his eyes made her wonder if he’d been unsure of her choice. It wouldn’t surprise her. After all, her martyr tendencies were well known to anyone who’d met her. He seemed satisfied by her answer though, leaning back in the rickety chair with all the majesty of a king on his throne. “Then, I suppose, we have a wedding to plan.”

It seemed to be a cue of some sort because Malfoy suddenly shifted, arranging a small pile of papers in front of himself. “I don’t know if you are aware, Lady Potter, but I have formally and extensively studied Magical Law and as such, Lord Slytherin has asked me to prepare you Marriage Contract and write down any clauses you agree upon today.” Ivy had to admire the way he managed to sound both strictly professional and condescending. She hadn’t known about all this, of course, but it shouldn’t surprise her that a man so able at evading the Magical Law system was intimately acquainted with it.

Ivy had been aware of Marriage Contracts, though. While they were considered outdated even in the old fashioned Wizarding World (and wasn’t that a surprise), they were still used sometimes, especially in higher stake unions between powerful houses, where riches and Wizangemot seats were in question.

There was a moment of silence as both sides measured each other carefully, daring the other to speak first. In the end it was Riddle who folded, giving her the stage. Ivy took a deep breath, thinking back on everything she and Hermione had listed the night before.

“I will not give up the Order of Phoenix.” She started, firm and authoritative. It was the same tone she used to argue the more headstrong members of the Order into submission. “Our marriage and subsequent inability to act directly against one another does not in any way mean that I will offer you the world on a silver platter. As long as Death Eaters exist, so will the Order, with me at the helm.” She did not give anyone time to argue before barreling forward, barely taking the time to breathe as she spoke. “I will be able to come and go as I please without any obstacle from you or you lackeys. I might be your wife, but I certainly won’t be your prisoner. If you or one of your Death Eaters moves against me and those I hold dear, I will retaliate and believe me, it won’t be pretty.” The two Death Eaters looked ready to draw their wands at her implied threat and probably would have, if Riddle wasn’t looking her with raw curiosity, as if he’d never seen her before.

“What exactly are you asking for Ivy?” He asked slowly, leaning forward on his chair. Having Tom Riddle’s attention focused solely on oneself was a heady feeling. For a single moment, it made her feel small, like an antelope in front of a hungry lion, or maybe a mouse in front of a snake was the better analogy. It brought back memories from her childhood, when she’d always been too weak against her uncle and cousin, but instead of making her cower it had the opposite effect on the girl. Her spine straightened even more and her chin lifted challengingly as she reminded herself that she was a predator as well and not anyone’s victim. She’d made sure of it.

“A ceasefire.” She said finally, meeting the eyes which haunted her nightmares from the moment she could walk. “We can’t kill each other, which makes the prophecy null and void if it was even legitimate in the first place. A continuation of the war as it is will only result in meaningless deaths and spilled magical blood.”

“And do you really believe I will give up what I’ve been fighting for the last fifty years?” He didn’t sound angry. In fact something told her he’d already made a decision in regard of her demands and was simply humoring her, like her argument amused him greatly.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Tom. I am well aware you have enough influence in the Ministry to push your agenda forward without unnecessary bloodshed. Any battles we have could be fought in the Wizangamot just as well as on the field.”

He smiled at that, all teeth and little warmth. “I would expect to be shown the same courtesy, of course.” He said finally. “If any of the members of Dumbledore’s beloved group of misfits dares to rise a wand against me and mine, I can promise you Ivy, I will find them and I will skin them.”

Ignoring the way the way the hairs on the back of her neck rose at the familiar sadistic glee in those bloody eyes, Ivy nodded, well-aware it was the best she could hope for. It would be a whole other battle to make every member of the Order to agree, though. “I can accept that.”

At the sign of his Lord, Malfoy immediately started scribing everything they had agreed on, the sound of his quill scratching against parchment deafening in the silence. Ivy took the small reprieve to check with her own companions, despite the feeling of Voldemort’s gaze burning into the side of her face. Hermione was glancing between her and the man, a frown on her face. No doubt her observant friend would later relay anything Ivy might have missed during her battle of wills with the Dark Lord. It only confirmed that Ivy had made the right call by taking her along.

On Ivy’s other side, Remus looked just as pale as Hermione, though he had managed to keep his neutral expression better than the younger witch. Ivy felt a stab of guild at putting him in this position. She knew very well what he felt, sitting across the table from the man who’d single handedly killed two of his best friends and indirectly caused the death of another. Watching her argue with him with no care of her personal safety probably hadn’t helped matters as well.

“Now, that is done,” Malfoy started, his eyes glancing between her and Voldemort, like he couldn’t decide who was more likely to explode. “Let us move onto other matters: Children?”

Ivy’s composure almost slipped at the mention of kids. Of course, she had been made aware of the fact that they had to have sex at least once to establish the bond and complete the contract, but the thought of having children with Voldemort disturbed her on a whole new level. Even aside all that, the thought of having children _at all_ frightened her. “Children?”

Surprisingly, it was Lupin who explained in a gentle, matter-of-fact voice she remembered from her Defense lessons. “Ivy, the whole point of the Soul-Matcher is to produce magically-powerful children. It’s part of the magical contract the Goblet creates between the soul-mates.”

“I’m only seventeen.” She whispered through suddenly numb lips. Having children had always seemed like a far-away dream to Ivy – pleasant yes (after all, having a family was her deepest, dearest desire) but vague and unreachable. For the better half of her childhood she hadn’t even been certain if she would live to see her majority, let alone to marry and become a mother.

“There is no time limit on it Ivy,” Remus soothed empathetically. “The bond won’t try to force the issue until several years into it, I believe.”

“There is also the matter of inheritance, of course.” Malfoy took over the conversation. “You two are the sole descendants of several very old and influential houses. In a perfect situation, you would be able to provide heirs for all of them, but of course a person is able to inherit several titles with some minor exceptions.”

“Exceptions?”

“The Slytherin and Gaunt Lordship could be passed only down the male line. The Potter and Black titles are gender neutral, as far as I’m aware.”

“So we’ll have to keep having children until we get a boy? Like some kind of messed up lottery?” In her mind’s eye, Ivy could see the Weasley family, who’d produced six healthy boys until finally getting the girl they’ve dreamed of.

“This is all, at this point of time, far in the future.” Riddle interrupted her horror-filled thoughts, shutting the topic down with casual finality. “We should rather concern ourselves with more urgent concerns, like living arrangements. As you are probably aware I am currently residing in Malfoy Manor,” Ivy suppressed horrified shudder at the thought of sharing a living space with Draco Malfoy and the rest of his Death Eaters. “However, I believe you would appreciate some more privacy and as such, I have made arrangements to prepare Slytherin Manor for us.” For a moment, Ivy had feared he was speaking of the great house on the hill in Little Hangleton, the one still sometimes featuring in her dreams. Still, the relief which followed warred with the fear of being alone in the same house with him for the rest of her life.

“I can live with that.” She allowed finally, swallowing back the lump of nerves which had settled in the back of her throat.

After that major point had been cleared up, they spent the next hour discussing smaller nuances like the kind of wedding they wanted (traditional hand-fasting, Riddle insisted), where it would be held (the gardens of Malfoy manor) and who was invited (“I swear to Merlin, if I see Bellatrix Lestrange there I will murder her myself!”).

It was surreal experience, to discuss her own wedding day with the man who’d spent the bigger part of her life trying to make sure she would never live to see it. But in the end everything was settled peacefully and Ivy and her friends were allowed to leave with the promise to visit Malfoy manor the next day to start wedding preparations with Narcissa Malfoy, of all people.

Ivy managed to hold herself in check until they were back in the still empty Burrow – the others had been called back and would be here every moment, demanding to know everything – where she finally allowed her mask to crumble. Her whole body trembled with dissipating adrenaline as she leant, panting, over the worn kitchen table and fought to keep the tears back.

The meeting her exhausted her, body and soul, and the power it took to consciously monitor her Occlumency shields left her head aching. She didn’t know how she would manage to do this every day for the rest of her life, though she was keenly aware she’d have to if she wanted to keep her loved ones safe.

A glass of familiar amber liquid was placed in front of her, the smell of alcohol burning her nostrils and she felt a sudden wave of gratitude towards Remus. “No chocolate this time?” She managed to quirk her lips in his direction in a pitiful imitation of a smile.

Her effort at levity was appreciated though, because the man smiled, before turning forlorn once more. “No,” He told her quietly. “Chocolate is for Dementors and what you faced today is an entirely different type of monster.”

Snorting in tired agreement, the girl leant her head against the back of her chair, savoring the few moments of peace, before the hoard descended to demand answers she wasn’t sure she had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, here is the last of the pre-written and eddited chapters. From here now updates will slow down a little though I will do my best to follow a schedule. It all will depend on the speed I could write with, but a chapter every week sounds pretty doable. As always, thank you all for the kudos and the reviews! Recieving feedback is amazing and it's what keeps my muse alive and running!   
> Stay tuned for next one!


	6. Revelations

A knock on the door startled Ivy from her brooding.

After the rest of the Order had arrived, they’d spent hours interrogating her about the meeting, dissecting every word spoken for hidden meanings and traps. Some of them were outraged by her choice to remain the active leader of the Order, fearing her proximity to the Dark Lord would lead to the exposure of their plans. It grated, that they believed her irresponsible enough or maybe stupid enough not to consider the risks and her ability to prevent information leakage before making such decision. As if she hadn’t spent countless sleepless nights making plans and finding ways to forward Dumbledore’s agenda.

And the announcement of the ceasefire caused even more disruption among the ranks, eventually escalating to a full blown screaming match between herself and surprisingly – or not- Ron. Honestly, sometimes Ivy believed her friend was more of a caricature of Gryffindor rather than a real person – brave and strong, but also bull-headed and loud, more brawn than brains. She’d been hurt by his reaction, but not surprised considering how often they butted heads in these manner.

Looking at her friend, sometimes the girl wondered if the Hat had been right to want to put her in Slytherin after all. While she didn’t exactly like it, manipulation and cunning came easier to her than most of her housemates, probably with the exception of the Weasley twins. Even Hermione, whom Ivy was convinced should choose a career in Law or Politics, sometimes lacked the needed subtleness to reach her goals.

A snake in lion’s clothing, perhaps that’s what she was.

Ron and her would make up, the girl knew, as they did every other time. When his temper cooled down and he was able to perceive things more clearly, he would come to her and they would speak without tempers getting in the way. It annoyed her, the way he always reacted emotionally rather than logically. The leader in her saw it as a flaw and a loss, considering she was well aware of the strategic mind hiding behind all that fire.

She had been the same in the beginning, all righteous fury and temperament, jumping head-first in predicament after predicament, but the years and responsibility had drawn it out of her. While still ready to risk herself, she was more prone to stopping and thinking first before barreling ahead.

Dinner had been tense that in night, with high tempers and strained conversations and Ivy had been extremely relieved when she could finally excuse herself without being rude. She’d gone straight to her room, pausing only to snitch a mild pain-relief potion from the bathroom cabinet, and here she still was, hours later.

“Come in,” Ivy finally called out when the person knocked again, relief sweeping over her when she realized it was only Hermione on the other side, already dressed in a pair of long sleeved pajamas with her bushy hair contained in a thick braid down her back.

“Sorry, Ivy.” The girl said hesitantly, as if unsure what exactly she was apologizing for. “Do you want to talk?”

Mulling over the suggestion over a moment, Ivy nodded. Had been anyone else, she’d probably turn them gently away, claiming headache or a desire to sleep, but Hermione was the only person Ivy could trust to help her make sense of the chaos in her head. And despite their friendship, the muggleborn witch had never shied away from brutal honesty, even if it was sometimes painful for Ivy to hear.

Ivy didn’t turn to look as the other girl crossed the room to sit on the bed, keeping her face turned away and eyes fixed on the darkness of the night outside the window. There was a moment of silence between them, neither sure how to broach the topic heavy on their minds.

“You know,” Hermione started haltingly, when the unsaid words between them became too much to bear. “When you told me, all these years ago that he had pointed out the similarities between the two of you, I honestly didn’t believe him. You see, in my head Voldemort was always this inhuman monster, ugly and twisted and vile, even after you told me what Tom Riddle looked like.”

“And now?” Ivy asked quietly, already knowing where this was heading.

“He reminded me of you. Aside from your looks and upbringing, which I admit _are_ eerily similar, you share the same charisma which has always drawn people to you.” Ivy offered a disbelieving glance. “Don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true. It’s the reason why so many people joined the DA. It’s why the Order have accepted your leadership so easily.”

“Easy?” The other girl snorted. “Every single meeting is a battle to prove myself in their eyes.”

“And you think it wouldn’t be worse for anyone else?” Hermione challenged. “Dumbledore was the only one whom none questioned. Some strife is expected after a change in leadership. And still, aside from matters of age and experience, one thing is true – there is not a person in the Order who wouldn’t follow you to the death.”

“So you think diary- Riddle was correct? That I’m the same as that- that monster?”

“Of course not!” Hermione scoffed. “In fact it speaks greatly of your character that in spite of your similarities, unlike him, you chose to save the world instead of ruin it. I’m only saying that I could understand why so many people were ready to follow him back in the day. It could not be just the promise of power because, let’s be honest, few people would believe a mad man even if he offered them the stars. But the man we met today was not mad, Ivy. Sadistic and cruel, maybe, but I could see it in eyes that he was smart. Frighteningly smart.”

“There are but two powers in the world, the sword and the mind. In the long run the sword is always beaten by the mind.”

“Quoting Napoleon now, are you?” Hermione snorted, before her face turned serious once again. “But it is true. You should be very careful, Ivy. Mad men might be unpredictable, but intelligent ones rarely lose.”

“Just what I needed to cheer me up.” Ivy sighed, abandoning her post next to the window to join her best friend on the bed. “You want to stay here tonight?” The plea for comfort was left unsaid but Hermione knew her well enough to hear it. It was something they had often done after life threatening situations, cuddling on the Ivy’s bed in the Gryffindor dorm rooms, offering each other whatever comfort they could.

Smiling gently, the bushy haired girl ran her fingers through Ivy’s soft black curls, nails scratching gently against her scalp in a calming gesture.

“Thanks, ‘Mione.” The girl who lived murmured sleepily, eyes shutting against the sheer exhaustion of the day she’d had. 

***

The next day, exactly at three o’clock, Ivy, Hermione and Fleur stood in front of the fireplace in the Burrows kitchen, letting a worried, almost teary-eyed Mrs. Weasley fuss over them.

“Oh, be careful dear ones.” She whispered, as she drew each of the girls in a motherly hug (in her worry, even her dislike for the French witch seemed to be forgotten). “And don’t forget we are all just a call away.”

The girls nodded their agreement, sharing a look.

Fleur had dressed all three of them, all the while shooting out advice on pure-blood etiquette, more for Hermione’s benefit than Ivy’. While she too was raised by Muggles, Ivy had the perks of Sirius as godfather, who, despite hating his family with passion, was aware how important appearances were in these circles. So he, with the surprising assistance of Tonks’ mother of all people, had done his best to teach her how to act as a Lady of two influential magical houses should. While Ivy herself had hated the lessons while they lasted, now she was thankful for them. The last thing she wanted was to become laughingstock to Voldemort’s Death Eaters because she picked up her tea cup with the wrong hand.

Ivy was the first to step through the fireplace, calling out for Malfoy manor as she did. Closing her eyes so she wouldn’t get sick while spun through the floo network, she mentally thanked Hermione for the forethought to place dirt-repelling charms on their clothes.

She stumbled slightly as she was spat back out into the world, the heeled shoes Fleur had insisted went with her clothes making it even harder than usual to keep her balance. Thankfully, she didn’t fall flat on her face and managed to move out of the way quickly enough so Hermione could freely step out of the fireplace, quickly followed by the French witch herself.

They found themselves in a lavish, but still tastefully decorated sitting room, with huge French windows on one side which gave it light and open feeling Ivy adored after years in a small, dark cupboard.

“Lady Potter,” The Lady of the manor approached them, a polite smile on her lips. “Welcome to Malfoy Manor. Shall I call for tea?”

Narcissa Malfoy, whom Ivy recognized from last year, was a tall willowy woman in possession of a certain kind of beauty which most people would categorize as cold. Golden haired, pale skinned and blue eyed she was far from the traditional Black coloring, though the aristocratic features of her face were traits the Blacks coveted and prided themselves on. Ivy could easily see some of the features she had inherited from her Black grandmother mirrored in the older woman’s face.

“It would be wonderful, Lady Malfoy.” Ivy replied, waving an arm towards her companions. “These are my friends Fleur Delacour and Hermione Granger. They offered to assist with the preparations.” If Narcissa was displeased with the company Ivy had invited, she did not show it. Not that she would, of course. Sirius had told her that purebloods were taught to hide their thoughts from the moment they were able to think.

Instead they were all invited to sit on the plush loveseats scattered around an antique looking coffee-table, while Lady Malfoy called for tea and refreshments and sent a message to her husband and Lord Slytherin who were - according to her - gathered in Lucius study.

Once the house elves had disappeared to their appointed tasks, Narcissa turned toward her guests. “Lady Potter, I understand from my husband that you would like help with planning the wedding?”

“Please call me Ivy,” The girl requested politely. She did not like the idea of giving Lucius Malfoy’s wife the leave to address her so casually, but just imagining hearing Lady Potter the whole afternoon annoyed her. “And yes, assistance would be very welcome if you would offer it.”

A house elf popped up, bearing tray with tea and biscuits.

“Thank you, Remy.” Lady Malfoy said as she busied herself with pouring the tea like any good hostess would. “And do address me as Narcissa, Ivy. We will see each other quite often, I suspect. Lucius told me you and our Lord have decided on a traditional hand-fasting for the ceremony?”

Ivy shrugged, delicately taking the porcelain cup from it saucer, waiting to see if her Black ladyship ring would react. As she’d claimed her titles the day she turned seventeen, the goblins had informed her of the many protective spells placed on the rings over the centuries. Aside from the light protection and warning charms, the one Ivy thought was most useful was the poison detection one.

When the ring didn’t heat up or react in any way to the drink, she allowed herself to take a sip, briefly closing her eyes to enjoy what was probably a very expensive blend.

“In all honesty, Narcissa, I care very little for the ceremony itself, so it was not difficult to yield to Tom’s wishes in this regard.” She couldn’t help but derive enjoyment from the slight widening of Narcissa’s eyes which slipped through her mask at the mention of her lord’s true name. “I have never been one of the girls who start planning for their weddings as children.”

Before Lady Malfoy could manage to form a response, heavy steps alerted that the men had finally decided to join them, before two figures swept into the room. Malfoy headed straight for his wife, an unmistakable tenderness in his eyes when he lifted her hand to lay a gentle kiss on the back of it. The display made Ivy uncomfortable, as if she was watching something terribly private, but a part of her couldn’t take her eyes away.

In the heat of battle it was easy to forget that her enemies were people too, with their own families and loved ones.

Absently she heard Fleur take a sharp breath from the couch adjacent to the one Ivy was sitting on, and followed her line of sight, understanding dawning. Tom Riddle had looked attractive yesterday, sitting on the rickety chair in the Leaking Cauldron, but standing up, dressed in simple but tasteful black slacks and button down shirt, he was striking.

Catching his eyes, Ivy raised an eyebrow as she waited for his next move. Lips twisting into a slow smirk, which looked like pure sin, Voldemort crossed the room and sat on the couch next to her, dwarfing her slight frame.

Not one to be intimidated, though cursing herself for leaving the seat open, Ivy straightened her spine, and bowed her head in a light nod. “Hello, Tom.” 

“Lovely to see you again, Ivy dear.” Merlin, even his voice was attractive.

“As I was saying, Ivy,” Narcissa spoke up, breaking what had became a staring contest between the couple. “Perhaps now that both of you are here, we might start going through each detail we need to clear up.”

The next hour or so was filled discussion of guest lists, colors and flowers with Ivy growing more and more bored as the time went on. What did it matter if the table cloths were blue or green, when she was marrying a murderer? To add to that she was vividly aware of the man sitting at her side, close enough that they occasionally brushed against each other at they moved.

But to her surprise both Fleur and Hermione had thrown themselves in the conversation with vigor, even if the latter was more interested in all the rituals surrounding Wiccan ceremonies than color schemes. 

A small, intentional touch on her elbow drew her attention away from the debating women and towards Riddle, who was watching her through slightly amused red eyes. “Seeing as you are not apparently needed,” He drawled, “I would like to speak with you.”

Ivy’s first thought was an outright refusal. They might have been polite to each other but they were both aware that it was nothing more than a farce. Hell, if it wasn’t for the damned goblet they would have been exchanging hexes as soon as he entered a room.

But then again what reason did she have to refuse? If she couldn’t bear to be alone in a room with him, how could she be able to share her bed and life with the man less than a month from now?

“Alright.” She agreed finally, promptly refusing the offered hand as she pulled herself to stand next to him. Even with the additional height the heels provided he was still much taller than her, with her forehead barely reaching his chin. She hated the way it made her feel small and vulnerable. “Lead the way.”

They walked out of the sitting room and down a long corridor, her heels clicking against the marble flooring as they walked side by side. A small part of her appreciated the fact that he was taking the care to walk slower, despite his considerably longer stride, but she quickly brushed it away. He might be able to play the suave gentleman all he wanted, but she was intimately acquainted with the monster which lurked bellow. 

Hundreds of framed portraits hung on the walls, their residents curiously peering at the pair as they walked past them. Malfoy’s ancestors, Ivy deducted judging by the platinum blonde hair most of the people had, with only the occasional flashes of black and brown, which must have belonged to people married in the family rather than born into it.

Ivy almost jumped when a hand wrapped around her elbow, surprisingly, deceivingly soft as it led her down a sharp left turn and towards a heavy oak door. The moment his fingers brushed against her bare skin, her magic seemed to come to life, sizzling in her veins like liquid fire. Judging by the slightly startled look he threw in her direction, she was not the only one feeling it. Usually, she would be glad of any occasion to discomfit him, but this time she was too unsettled to enjoy it.

“What was that?” She demanded when he finally released her, hand dropping from her as if burned. They had found themselves in what appeared to be a study of some sort, with book-filled shelves covering most of the walls and a big mahogany desk, dominating the rest of the room.

Instead of immediately answering, Riddle busied himself with crossing towards a small side-table, pouring two decanters of amber liquid, offering her one. Her hand trembled slightly as she raised it to her face, sniffing suspiciously. It was some kind of alcohol, probably scotch or whiskey, but it smelled richer than any whiskey she had ever consumed. It burned pleasantly down her throat as she sipped it, the taste of oak and smoke and a faint whiff of vanilla exploded across her taste buds.

“That, Ivy dear, was the soulmate bond.” He told her, leaning back against the edge of the desk, twirling his own glass between long elegant fingers. “It is still at its weakest stage, considering it’s unconsummated and there is no marriage bond to strengthen it, but obviously it can still affect us.”

“That was weak?” Ivy whispered through slightly numb lips, trying – and failing – to imagine what a complete, full-fledged bond must feel like.

“Yes, though I do believe that the fact that part of my soul resides inside you is helping it along.”

She would have dropped the glass if Riddle’s magic had not reacted fast enough to keep it floating. “What?”

There was sadistic satisfaction in his smile. “Oh, didn’t you beloved Headmaster tell what actually happened on the night sixteen years ago, Ivy?”

Feeling as if she’d been submerged in ice cold water, Ivy struggled to keep her composure in check as the thoughts flew around her head at thousand miles a minute. A terrible, horrifying suspicion started to take root in her mind. “What are you talking about?”

As if this was exactly what he’d been waiting for, Voldemort leant forward from his position, ruby eyes boring into green as he prepared to deliver the final blow. “You are a horcrux, Ivy.” He told her softly, lovingly as if it was a love confession and not a confirmation of her worst nightmares. “There is a silver in my viscous, tainted soul residing tight here.” Cold, elegant fingers brushed against the lightning bolt on her forehead, a false tenderness belied by the wicked, vicious thing she could see swirling in his eyes.

Her skin immediately sparked to life at the contact, magic straining in her veins, fighting to bring them closer together, but her mind was too numb to notice.

The pieces started falling together, this little shards of memories, seemingly disconnected but when put together painting a picture Ivy would have preferred to never see.

_Mr. Weasley’s blood hot in her mouth, coating sharp canines she knew she did not have in the waking world. The feeling of a foreign anger in her chest, hunger strong enough to devour the world._

_Snape’s, pale, serious face watching her through glittering coal eyes. “The usual rules do not seem to apply with you, Potter. The curse that failed to kill you seems to have forged some kind of connection between you and the Dark Lord.”_

_“I guessed, fifteen years ago,” said Dumbledore, face looking more tired than usual. “when I saw the scar on your forehead, what it might mean. I guessed that it might be the sign of a connection forged between you and Voldemort.”_

_“On those rare occasions when we had close contact, I thought I saw a shadow of him stir behind your eyes …”_

_“A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul.”_

_“Can you only split your soul once?” A teenage Tom Riddle was asking in her mind’s eye, handsome face set in an expression of poorly concealed greed. “Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn't seven — ?"_

Seven. All hidden, scattered across the world, but one hidden best of all, thriving in chest of small baby girl with killing-curse eyes.

How had she not known, never considered- But she had, hadn’t she? Hadn’t she demanded the truth over and over for those more knowledgeable, instinctively aware that something was not right, that something didn’t fit, only to be given the same nonsensical drivel over and over again. Even later when she’d finally found out about Horcruxes the idea had been circling the edge of her conscious, only to be violently discarded. She had even refused to consider it back then, finding it too vile, too terrible to even question it. She had chucked it in the furthest corner of her mind, where nothing but darkness dwelt, vowing to never let it see the light.

Oh, how Lady Fate loved to toy with her!

And Dumbledore, that old fox must have known, known that she would never be able to kill Voldemort, not while there was a piece in her keeping him alive, anchoring him to this world. But that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? She had never been supposed to kill him herself, was she? No, her task had been to destroy as many Horcruxes, to clear the way for someone else before sacrificing herself like the martyr she’d been raised to be.

A pig raised for slaughter, that’s all she was.

“Get away from me!” She snarled, a cornered beast, pushing away from Voldemort’s looming body and crossing the room to put as much distance between them as she could. It took her a moment to realize she was panting harshly, her hair whipping in invisible wind as magic rose in answer to her distress, searching for a threat that was not there.

Riddle didn’t move from his position, his eyes burning into her with sadistic satisfaction as she struggled to put herself back together, to grasp back the control his words had ripped away from her. She wanted to lash out, to hurt him, to bring the whole manor down on their heads if it would be enough to erase this whole conversation from existence. She wanted to concentrate the power swirling around her in his direction, to rip him apart only with the strength with her magic, to make him feel if only a silver of the pain and fear she was going through.

But her magic did not respond. The bond would never allow her to cause him harm and that hurt even more.

“Calm yourself!” A cold voice commanded, twin hands gripping her upper arms and she suddenly realized that she’d been swaying in tandem with the storm brewing within. Her skin sparkled where they touched, raw magic focusing completely on him but not with the direction to hurt, but to seek comfort and safety from what it perceived from its mate. “Calm,” Riddle crooned, hands running up and down the skin of her forearms and to her horror she found herself settling down, her heartbeat slowing as the adrenaline drained from her system.

Legs suddenly weak, she found herself leaning forward, forehead resting against his clothed chest as she struggled to catch her breath. She felt tired, physically and emotionally, too drained to tear herself away from the notion of comfort, deceptive as it were.

“Why are you telling me this?” Ivy asked quietly, eyes closed as she listened to the sound of his slow breathing. 

“Because I am not Dumbledore, Ivy.” He answered just as soft, a hand absently running playing with the wild curls scattered across her back, her magic having ripped them out of her braid. “I do not believe in keeping you in the dark for your own good, unpleasant as you find the truth.”

She hummed absently, hating the part of her that felt a spike of appreciation at the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, that took much longer than I had hoped for but at least it's finally here. I hope you like it and thank you all for the kudos and comments! You are all amazing!


	7. Fallout

**** Saints and Sinners  
Chapter 6  
Fallout

Feeling like an interloper, Ivy stalked the empty darkened halls of the castle, mind a heavy, jumbled mess and body tense as a bowstring ready to fire.

It had been a surprise that the wards had even let her in, something she had not considered in her sudden desperation to come here, to find some resolution, some answers which had been denied to her most of her life. Whatever it was her distress or the familiarity of her magic, but the half-sentient castle had let her in, ancient wards parting to envelope her in their familiar embrace, the feeling of home and belonging soothing something deep in her soul.

Her steps echoed in the empty walkways, the curious eyes of the portraits following her progress to the headmaster’s office, but her expression must have been forbidding enough so that they did not try to engage her, even to sooth their endless thirst for news and gossip.

She was once again reminded of how thoughtless - how _rash_ -her plan was by the sight of the gargoyle guarding the familiar staircase. It had been years since she’d done something like that, jumping headfirst in the direction her instincts led, with no thought of what she would do next.

Thankfully, there was no need of guessing the password as she usually did, or even curse herself for not taking the Marauder’s Map in her hurry, because as soon as she approached the statue spun by itself, twisting away to reveal the spiraling staircase.

The Headmaster’s office was empty of human presence when she ascended, most of the portraits snoring loudly in their frames. The lamps were lit though, and the fireplace burning and for a moment Ivy felt like she had travelled several months back in time. She half expected to see Dumbledore sitting behind the desk ready for one of their lessons or hear the soft croon of Fawkes greeting her from his perch next to the fire. Even the desk was the same as she remembered, littered with dozens of strange and bizarre gadgets and gizmos, with several of the brightly colored quills the old man had adored still scattered next to pieces of parchment. But there was no Dumbledore on the lavish throne-like chair and no Fawkes, the majestic phoenix having left for parts unknown immediately after the funeral, probably never to return.

Sometimes Ivy still heard his last mournful song in her dreams and woke up gasping and in tears.

But she had not come tonight to lose herself in bittersweet memories, tempting as the thought was.

So she tore her gaze away from the desk and past, turning towards the wall where a large portrait hung, familiar blue eyes watching. It was a good portrait, a representation of Dumbledore as she would always remember him, with long white beard and hair, dressed in bright plum-colored robes. Somehow, even through the canvas and the brush strokes, his eyes twinkled, mouth twisting in a grandfatherly smile as soon as he noticed her attention, despite the rather severe expression on her face. “Ivy, my dear girl-”

And suddenly Ivy couldn’t bear it, the soft-spoken words, the deceiving affection in his voice and that damn twinkle he always had, as if he hadn’t ruined her life.

“I’m not here to exchange pleasantries, Headmaster.” She snapped, voice sharp and cutting as the jagged edges of a piece of broken glass, something dark in her purring at the sight of Dumbledore’s surprised face. Rarely would she have allowed herself to speak to him in the tone - with the notable exception of the end of her fifth year- having always been too good of a soldier to question the words of her leader and general. But he was dead and she was alive, a doll with her strings suddenly cut, with no one to tell her what to do and so, so lost and angry.

“Watch your language Potter!” Phineas Nigellus’ snide voice called out from his portrait, probably awoken by the jarring volume of her voice. With the corner of her eye she could see the other portraits stirring as well, curious and enraged by her lack of courtesy to the last headmaster.

“You watch your Phineas. I am Lady Black now. If I wish I could have every portrait of yours recalled and burned for all the annoyance you’ve caused.” His gasp of outrage was almost worth it.

Ivy used his scandalized silence to turn back towards the headmaster she knew personally, unsurprised to find him mostly unperturbed by her shortness of temper. “Did you know I am his horcrux?” Her voice was as calm as she could make it but even a deaf man couldn’t miss the frosty edge of her words, the barely restrained storm underneath her skin. Dumbledore knew it, of course, knew the vicious monster living in the darkest corners of her mind, being the one to feed it when it would suit his purposes and chain it when it became a liability. But there was no one left to chain her anymore and he was aware, judging by how quickly the twinkle in his eyes was extinguished when faced with the barely restrained violence in hers.

“Dear girl-” He tried again in the same soft grandfatherly voice the younger Ivy had tripped over herself to hear. It angered her that even after being so thoroughly disillusioned by the man, she still felt a tug in her chest at the sound, some part of her desperate to sooth the sadness in it. 

“No!” She growled, pacing the short distance to the fireplace and back, like a tiger caged. “You don’t get to speak to me in that tone. Did you know?”

“I had a guess.”

And there it was, an answer as cryptic as it could be and somehow still enough to confirm her worse fear, to truly reveal the depth of his manipulation of her, of his regard for her life. The air left her in a rush, feet freezing, half turned towards the portrait and half away, as if it would be enough to hide the hurt her face must be expressing.

A huff of laughter escaped her, a wretched, unhappy sound torn from somewhere deep in her chest. “We both know how accurate your guesses are, don’t we Dumbledore?” Something menacing and angry burned in her chest as she stalked in the direction of the portrait, each step enunciating the words spewing from her mouth. “You knew and still you let me live, pretending that I was something more than a pig raised for SLAUGHTER!” Her magic lashed out with the sharpness and accuracy of a whip, pushing all gadgets and gizmos off the desk with a devastating sweep. The sound of shattering glass and clinking metal was deafening in the silence. 

“How could you?” Ivy asked finally, panting as she tried to pull herself back in control. “How could you look me in the eye all those years and know, know that you were leading me straight to my death?”

He didn’t answer, not that Ivy needed and wanted the answer she already knew. It was always for the Greater Good with him, wasn’t it? What was one little, insignificant life in the face of the thousands that would die by Voldemort’s hand? What did it matter that that one life was everything to her? That she had dreams and desires, wanting to have a family, to become an auror or a healer or maybe even a curse breaker, to honor life her parents and Sirius had gifted her at the price of their own. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Tom already knows and even if he wants to, he can’t kill me anyway. You lost everything, old man.” She sighed, leaning back against the desk and fixing the mess she created with a wave of her wand. She might be angry with Dumbledore but she didn’t want to cause any trouble for McGonagall or whoever had taken his place.

There was a sudden sound of rushing footsteps and Ivy looked up surprised as McGonagall burst into the room, dressed in a long Gryffindor red dressing gown and with her hair in a sleeping net, wand drawn and eyes frantically scanning the room for threats. “Potter – Ivy – What are you doing here?” Despite her less than put together appearance, McGonagall sounded as stern as always, easily making Ivy feel like a small first year who’d been late for Transfiguration class. “And what was that noise? I heard a crash.”

“Forgive me, Professor, Headmaster Dumbledore and I were having a small disagreement.” Ivy answered as neutrally as she could manage, even if the older woman’s raised eyebrows showed she had not been as convincing as she’d hoped. She felt McGonagall’s eyes trace her form, saw as the harshness softened to concern.

“Are you alright, Ivy?” For all her stern appearance and no-nonsense attitude McGonagall was a kind woman, fiercely protective of her little lion cubs. It hardly mattered that as the years passed Ivy thought of herself less and less as a brave lion and more as a snake in a lion’s den, willing to lie and slip through her classmates’ inquiries rather than face them head on - to McGonagall she would always be one of her own and for a moment it was almost enough for Ivy to break down, to share everything that kept her awake at night.

It was a momentarily weakness, a dash of longing for comfort, before she pulled herself back, closing herself behind the walls of her mind and heart, slipping the mask on her face with the familiarity of a well-worn cloak. 

“I will be.” She sighed, unable to completely hide her bone deep exhaustion. “I am sorry about the commotion, Professor. If you’ll excuse me,” She didn’t wait for response before twirling on her heel and walking out of that wretched office with the dozens of gazes tearing her apart from the portraits on the walls.

As she walked out she was able to catch a glimpse of her appearance in the reflective surface of the glass doors of one of the cupboards and suppressed a grimace. No wonder McGonagall was worried about her. The last two sleepless nights were blatantly obvious in the bruises underneath her eyes and the drawn paleness of her skin. Her muggle jeans and large T-shirt were wrinkled and creased, openly displaying the fact she hadn’t changed them in while. Now that her anger had been mostly exhausted she looked smaller than usual, the confidence she usually portrayed gone from her hunched shoulders. 

Why had she even come here in the first place? For answers? For assurances? As if she hadn’t learned not to expect the truth from Dumbledore if it didn’t fit his plans.

No, she needed-

She wasn’t even sure what she needed. A bottle of firewhisky perhaps or a whole cauldron of Dreamless sleep if only to escape her mind for a little while.

Her mind shied away from the idea of returning to the Burrow. It was where questions and worried looks awaited her, no doubt the household already aware of her missing status. Hopefully Mrs. Weasley’s enchanted clock, which she and Hermione had been added to, much to the two girls’ surprise and affection, would hold the panic at bay for just a little longer.

What Ivy needed was to be alone with her thoughts just for a moment, to clear her head and to think, without her family looming over her shoulder in concern.

Her destination still unclear, Ivy twirled in place at the gates of Hogwarts, allowing the Apparition to sweep her away.

Godric’s Hollow was exactly as she had always imagined, even if she had never seen it outside of a map of magical villages she’d found in Hogwarts library last year. Her rather disorientated Apparition attempt had left her – thankfully whole – standing in the middle of a rather narrow road, bracketed from both sides with identical cozy-looking two-store cottages, with well-manicured lawns and ivy on the walls. There was no light in the windows, no shadowy shapes visible through the glass, but it still, even in the dead of night the small village managed to look warm and comforting and everything Ivy wished she’d had during her childhood.

The end of the street opened up in a small picturesque square, surrounded by closed down shops and pubs, the faded signs gleaming in the moonlight. There was a statue in the middle, an obelisk like the one Ivy had glimpsed in London on one of the rare primary school excursions the Dursleys had been forced to let her go on. As she walked closer though, the air around it seemed to shiver and shift, magic slipping away like a veil, revealing not a memorial of muggle war-heroes but rather a statue of a family. Something in her chest ached as hungry eyes devoured the faces – a man with glasses and wing swept, untidy hair, a woman with warm, heart-shaped face holding onto a half sitting toddler, whose expression seemed to have been frozen amidst a giggle. They were smiling, all of them, happy and content and somehow despite being made from cold, unmoving stone the statue exuded warmth Ivy had longed for her whole life.

Oh, how desperately she wished to remember these times, with her parents smiling down at her, holding her close as if she was the most precious thing in the entire world. Instead what she got was her mother’s dying screams and the flash of green light which had cut her life short.

The same green light which instead of killing baby Ivy, the way it had hundreds of people through the ages, had left her with a scar and a silver of Voldemort’s soul.

How much had that affected her life, affected her? Where did she end and where did Tom Riddle begin?

The Parseltongue came from him that much was certain but what else? Her darkest impulses, the desires and monsters hidden in the depths of her conscious never to see the light of day – were they hers or were they a reflection of the Horcrux inside her prompting her down the path Riddle had taken decades ago?

She needed answers, desperately, and there was only one person who could give them.

Calling her Patronus was as easy as breathing by now, the handsome stag prancing around the statue solemnly, as if he too felt the somberness of their location. Ivy called him softly to her, running a palm down a semi-ethereal muzzle softly.

“Go to Tom Riddle, Prongs.” Ivy whispered, voice loud in the silent night. “Tell him I need to speak to him. Tell him to come to the place where it all began.”

Finding the Potter cottage was easy, the Fidelius Charm having fallen with her parents’ death. It was still standing the way it had been left sixteen years ago, with half of the second floor blown off, marking the place where the killing curse had rebounded. Stopping in front of the fence and peering into the overgrown garden, Ivy took a moment to imagine what her life here could have been, surrounded by her parents’ affection. Perhaps she would have gotten siblings or even a dog and spent hours chasing them in the garden or flying on a broom when she got older or -

Happy, it would have been a happy life, everything little Ivy Potter sobbing on her tiny cot in her tiny cupboard had dreamt about. But now, just as it had been then, it was nothing but a wishful musing, an orphan’s dream – unreachable, unachievable and yet so, _so_ desired.

The pop of Apparition would have startled her from her thoughts if she hadn’t expected it since the moment her Patronus faded from sight. The sound of footsteps on gravel approached, pausing next to her and yet she did not turn, her eyes still fixed on the ruined house as if she could reverse time by gaze alone. Here with no distractions around, no wards, no wizards and witches, the hum of her magic at his proximity was even more poignant, like they were two planets orbiting around each other with gravity pushing them closer and closer until eventually they collided in an explosion of ash and stardust.

He didn’t speak and for a moment neither did she, both of them staring at the place which had changed their lives, a meeting so monumental it had grinded prophesy and destiny to ash. But soon enough the weight of the unsaid between them became too oppressive, too much to bear for her already fragile state mind and the words tumbled out of her mouth without conscious choice. “What does it mean for me, being your Horcrux?”

She heard him exhale heavily, a sound on any other person she would call a sigh, the shifting in her peripheral vision telling her he’d leant against the fence, copying her posture, fingers steepled together.

“It’s complicated.” He started simply and beneath the forced calmness she could hear the frustration in his voice. For a short, absurd moment Ivy was reminded of Hermione and her anger when she couldn’t find the answers she needed in her beloved books. “I’ve been researching the topic since I found out and I still don’t have a concrete answer.” He turned his head to look her in the eye. “You must understand Ivy, that there has never, in the recorded history of magic, been a living person used as a horcrux. It has never been even theorized. Souls are too fickle and volatile, mixing two of them together is -” He took a breath. “Everything I’m telling you is more of a personal theory, rather than facts.”

She was starkly reminded of Dumbledore and his theories and it made her jaw clench in annoyance and anger. “Never the less I would hear them. You promised me you would not keep the truth from me, ugly as it might be.”

He twitched at the demand in her voice, an unvoiced sign of displeasure at being commanded but didn’t deny her. “From what I could find the soulmate bond should be strengthened by the preexisting connection between us, though hopefully not to the point of everyday emotions and thoughts bleeding through. Tell me, have you had any dreams or visions this summer?”

Frowning, Ivy tried to remember if her scar had hurt at all this summer, coming up blank.

The answer seemed to please him. “Good. I’ve reworked my Occlumency barriers, hopefully to the point where they should keep most of it at bay. Of course, it is possible that stronger emotions might still bleed through but it should be rare.”

“How come that didn’t work before? I thought you were a Master Occlumens.”

“What is Occlumency, Ivy? At its basics?”

“It’s a magical defense of the mind against external penetration.” Ivy recited, briefly remembering Snape’s failed attempts to teach her and later Dumbledore’s vastly more successful ones.

“Just so.” Riddle inclined his head. “Only it defends against _external_ penetration. And my barriers, no matter how strong, could not keep what they recognized as a piece of _me_ out. That’s why you were able to glimpse into my mind, especially when I was feeling something strong enough to reach you and call to you even with miles between us.”

Ivy was silent as she chewed on the new information. It explained many things even if she loathed the suggestion that Voldemort subconscious recognized her, or at least part of her, as himself. But it was a relief at least to know finally, to understand the reason behind things, to gain answers which had been denied to her over and over.

But there was another worry on the forefront of her mind, a suspicion which had been born the moment she’d learned about the horcrux. She had refused to even contemplate it back then, chugging the thought to the dark recesses of her mind hoping it would disappear, like a child closing its eyes and thinking it made them invisible. It hadn’t of course. It hadn’t disappeared and the words were out of her mouth before she could hold them back, if only to keep her head buried in the sand a little longer. But for all her short comings Ivy had never been a person to shy away from the truth. “And what does it mean about me? About my… lifespan.”

The silence was heavy between them, suffocating and threatening, the sword of Damocles hanging over her head.

“Horcruxes, save for a few ways, are indestructible Ivy.” He said quietly but his words rang through her skull as if he’d yelled them in her face. “My Nagini is one of them and she has not shown signs of aging despite the long years she has been in my company.”

And here it was, her worst fears voiced and confirmed for the second time in three days.

It had always been probably one of the biggest differences between her and Voldemort – his lust for immortality and fear of death, against her martyr tendencies and quiet acceptance. For all her anger towards Dumbledore for concealing her eminent demise from her, Ivy would have been prepared to die when the time came. Not gladly perhaps, because despite everything she still had dreams and ambitions, but if it came to a choice between herself and the people she loved, she knew what she would have chosen.

But immortality… It had never been something she’d lusted after, not the way most people do. And she had considered it, especially after the destruction of the Philosopher’s Stone during her first year at Hogwarts. Nicholas Flamel had had it, immortality, and still he’d given it up because he was tired of living, tired and lonely despite having his wife. What did that mean for Ivy who loved people so fiercely, who couldn’t imagine a year without Hermione’s hugs and Ron’s sometimes annoying habit of arguing with her, let alone a lifetime.

A life without death, without the opportunity to see her parents again, or Sirius or even Dumbledore and every other person she had lost.

“Is there a way to reverse that effect? To make me mortal again?” Ivy could hear the desperation in her own voice, the thirst for a way out of it, the fear of the inevitability of the situation.

Something dark and angry flashed in Riddle’s eyes.

“Are you suicidal, Ivy?” He spat through bared teeth. “After fighting me at every turn to stay alive?” There was fury in his voice, in his countenance as he turned to face her.

It made her own desperation melt away into anger. “No!” She hissed back, pulling back to put some distance as their combined magic sizzled between them, charging the air like just before the fall of a lightning. “But I have no desire to be forever alone!” It was startling how quickly the tentative peace between them had crumbled to this, this vortex of spite and wrath and rage.

“You should be grateful! I have given you a gift others could only dream of-”

“I don’t want it!”

Ivy watched as he struggled to calm himself down, his hands fisted at his sides, trembling with barely-restrained violence. He turned away from her, breathing heavily and for a moment she feared he would explode, but when he spoke his voice was controlled. “Too bad for you then.”

Unfortunately the calmness in him served only to enflame Ivy’s own anger. That vicious monster in her chest stirred, coiling like a snake ready to lash out. She wanted to hurt him, to punish him for forcing her in this position. The words were out of her mouth before her brain had time to register them. “Maybe I should visit the Chamber of Secrets again,” She hissed out, notes of parseltongue slipping in her speech as they often did when she was furious enough. “The Basilisk fangs did well enough against the Diary. Of course, I can’t be sure how Dumbledore dealt with the ring but-” The world spun violently around her, the breath escaping her lungs as she found herself slammed back against the gate, not painful but hard enough to jar her. Riddle’s hand was tight around her throat and constricting, his face only inches from her own, red eyes spewing fire. It lasted only a second, but for a moment she feared that he would simply strangle her consequences be damned.

But then something in his expression shifted, anger giving away to agony. His hand dropped from her throat and he wretched himself a few steps away, crying out in pain as he fell to his knees in front of her, muscles violently constricting as if he was under the Cruciatus.

It didn’t last long, half a minute perhaps, but it felt as if it was an eternity as Ivy watched him groan from invisible pain, while she rubbed at the skin of her neck. It probably wouldn’t even bruise – her tanned skin did not bruise easily – but the places where his fingers had dug into her skin were tender and throbbing, as well as her shoulder blades where they’d crashed against the gate.

The worst of the pain seemed to have passed, but Tom did not raise, panting heavily on his knees, one hand pressed flat against the ground in front of him, the other in a pale knuckled fist at his side. Suddenly he roared, swiping his arm in the direction of a nearby tree and Ivy jumped as it exploded in splinters and dust.

The episode had been enough to bring her anger down to simmer, rational thought slowly returning and with it her shame about her lapse of control. How had she allowed herself to regress back to this child, full of spite and righteous anger, speaking without a though or consideration of the consequences? She thought she’d outgrown these outbursts long ago, when her own rashness had cost her Sirius’s life. Such reactions had no place in a leader, especially one who directly or not, held lives in the palms of her hands.

“What was that?” Ivy questioned quietly when it didn’t seem like he would explode anything else in his frustration. His magic was heavy in the air, the taste of snow and ash and rust burning at the back of her throat.

“The bond.” Riddle growled out, slowly pulling himself up, face pale and muscles twitching. His voice was low and hoarse, despite the lack of sound he’d produced even in pain. “I truly can’t touch you.” He laughed, a dark, unhappy sound. The pain seemed to have drained the worst of his anger and, though distinctively unhappy, he appeared much calmer – or at least less murderous.

He looked towards her but his gaze seemed drawn by the hand still rubbing her neck instead of her face.

Ivy almost flinched back when he approached suddenly, but then reminded herself of the episode which just happened, and forced herself to stay still as his long fingers replaced hers on her skin. She was prepared for the tingle of their skin brushing together, but the familiar cool sensation of healing magic was a surprise, even as the distant throb in her neck and shoulder dulled into nothing.

She watched his face from beneath her lashes as he lifted her chin to inspect her throat. “What happened to you? When I saw you last year you were-” _Utterly mad, unhinged, unstable_. “-Different.”

“Insane, you mean?” Tom provided as he pulled back, one corner of his mouth jerking up in a sardonic expression. How different he looked from mere minutes ago when he’d seemed ready to murder her where she stood. “When I set off to make my Horcruxes, I admit I underestimated how important a soul is to one’s mental health.” He admitted somewhat painfully, thrusting his hands in the pockets of his pants and leaning back against the fence as if they were nothing but normal people having a conversation. As if they hadn’t just been ready to tear each other apart. “Though since last year it has been slowly coming back to me, in pieces, and you just gave me the answer why.”

“You mean the destruction of the horcruxes? But I thought that by destroying the container the soul is destroyed as well.”

“Souls are an obscure branch of magic, Ivy. There is no way to know for sure what happens if they are destroyed or even _if_ they can truly be destroyed. The fact is that I am once again in possession of rational thought – something you should be grateful for. Otherwise I just might have killed you in anger despite the consequences.”

“I don’t know,” She muttered, watching him with a frown, Hermione’s words ringing in her head. “Something tells me that it makes you even more dangerous than before.”

Riddle smirked, sharp and glinting like knife in the darkness. “Clever girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, better late than never I suppose! This chapter reminded me why I never write ahead on any of my stories - I always have to rewrite the chapters when the time to post them comes.   
> Thank you all for the coments and kudos and I hope you like this chapter!


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